


the things we lost in the fire

by nimrodcracker



Series: and still I haul my heavy feet [3]
Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: Aromantic Asexual Jedi Exile, Canon Divergence, Gen, Pre-KOTOR, Reconciliation, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4461551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrodcracker/pseuds/nimrodcracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always the same after a galactic war; the refugees, the destruction, and the memories - but for a Jedi exile, that was the least of her problems. No matter what she did, her past had this uncanny - often infuriating - ability to catch up with her wherever she went. </p><p>Of course, when her past took the form of her former apprentice, she wasn't surprised in the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the Bottom

**Author's Note:**

> A fic in which the Exile has an apprentice who didn't follow her to war. The funny part is that this fic didn't start off centering on that, ha.
> 
> (Also known as: my attempt to fill in the silent years after the wars and before the KOTOR games.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Exile gets employed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _and there's a lake_  
>  _and at the bottom you'll find all my friends_  
>  _they don't swim cause they're all dead_  
>  _we never are what we intend, or invent_  
>  ([~](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p03JSRyqoY8))

3959 BBY // 1 AMW

Orange Lady Cantina  
Corellian Sector  
Nar Shaddaa

* * *

  _It's been close to a year since Malachor V, yet it feels like yesterday._

She flexed her fingers again, grounding herself in the inane movement of digits in the space of seconds. That gave her the clarity of mind to slowly push out the noises surrounding her to the edge of her hearing. Once done, she focused her gaze on the drained glass that stood inches away from her hands.

She pictured the glass tipping over in her mind, and _willed_ it so.

But there was no tinkling to be heard, no crash of glasses falling against the filthy floor - and the full weight of _something_ slammed into her gut.

 _A year since that revelation on the_ Aegis, _and you still have much to learn._

That something was disappointment, and she weathered it with gritted teeth and eyes scrunched tight.

Once, she could move starfighters and send armoured soldiers flying with a flick of a wrist. Now, a glass had her powerless - all three _inches_ of it - and no amount of flicking and grumbling would budge it from its spot on the bar counter.

 _Stop it. Stop it._ Stop _hurting yourself. Stop trying when you're obviously not going to get it back._

In a single year, the keen sense of loss had dissolved into a constant, dull ache that was ever-present. Had it been a localised injury like the thousands she'd sustained during the war, blocking out the pain would've been trivial. But the Force had been meshed so closely within herself, so much so that she couldn't determine where her senses ended and the Force started.

That was the frustrating part.

She knew the Falleen barkeep was staring at her from their spot by the drinks dispenser, but she ignored them.

Where was she again? Ah, of course. Nowhere else _but_ Nar Shaddaa. A haven for the filth of the galaxy, a perfect place to disappear - and that suited her fine. Because after the events of the past year, she just wanted to be left alone.

She didn't realise someone had sat beside her until the barkeep came over. Cringing inwardly, she cursed herself for her inattention, for not relying on her physical senses that had always served her well. She was supposed to be better than this... this pathetic, lowlife _barve_ who drifted through cantinas as frequently as changing clothes.

The anger didn't last a minute; within seconds, the familiar weariness settled in like a well-worn cloak, and she was numb once more.

 _Oh, bloah._ She motioned the barkeep for a refill, too spent to do anything else.

When the barkeep disappeared into the cantina's kitchens, the man beside her spoke. "You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?"

As she chugged down her watered-down brandy - most she could afford right now - she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Sometimes, it felt like the galaxy was out to get her.

"Hey. Don't be a stranger, lady," he prodded, undeterred in the least. So much so that she heard him shift in his seat to face her.

Exasperation simmered beneath her skin, the brandy burning its way through her system. _Good grief._ Couldn't this laserbrain take a hint?

"Not interested," she drawled, pointedly fixing her gaze on the glass in her hands. Where was that barkeep when she needed them? Falleen pheromones were highly potent; they could ward off this sleemo who insisted on bothering her. _Sithspit_ , what did a lady have to do - or wear - to be left alone for once?

She sensed the rapid change in the air, now charged with anticipation... and imminent violence. Her muscles tensed in reflex.

"That's not nice. Nobody talks to me like that," the man declared, rolling thunder in his words. For a human of larger-than-average build, that threat fell short of intimidating her.

She had to consciously stop herself from shaking her head. _Fierfek, is this oaf really empty in the head?_

"There, there," she said in false sweetness, sweeping her gaze over his livid expression and curled fists. "Shall I dress your wounds? Sing you a lullaby?"

She grinned at him, a gesture he didn't return. Rather, jaw clenching, he _lunged_ -

-and she sprang off her seat, knocking down her barstool. His heavy-handed blow sent him crashing to the floor, but he rose quickly while she stood waiting, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

She knew she was baiting a rancor, but she didn't care. " _Aw,_ " she crooned. "Seems like I really need to dress those cuts, yes?"

The murderous look he shot her was fearsome enough to rival that of a chitlik's. He rushed towards her with his fist raised, only for it to be grabbed by the wrist from behind.

"Pal, I don't think that's wise." Another human, brown hair slicked upwards haphazardly to the side, stepped out from behind the brute. "You even made Nazar here unhappy."

The new man jerked his head in the direction of the barkeep, and she saw the Falleen pointing a blaster at the brute. Probably set to stun, she noted. Not that she cared if it wasn't, 'cause she had better things to care about. For example, she _did_ care that the denizens of the bar were watching this confrontation with thinly-veiled interest. It was, after all, unwanted attention.

Realising that he was sorely outnumbered, the brute huffed and stormed off, spitting invectives colourful enough to make a spacer blush. Unsurprisingly, he kicked the sliding doors on his way out.

Not waiting for the murmurs in the background to subside, she uprighted her stool and sat back at the bar, feeling vaguely annoyed. Mercifully, her glass was still filled, and she downed its contents.

"Hey, can I talk to you? I promise to be polite."

She heard him approaching, of course. She just couldn't believe that he did, especially after what had just occurred. And the fact that she hadn't recognised the hint of _their_ accent in his words till now.

"Do you want me to break your jaw?" she bit off, unrepentant in her belligerence. Hadn't she made it _quite_ clear that she wanted to be left alone? "Back in the day, Mandalorians who shot at me tended to have more than their teeth knocked out."

Oh, she knew his type: tall, dark and supposedly handsome. In other words, _filthy flirt._ Not only that, this plastihead had the _audacity_ to rob her of a fight she'd been itching for in a long while.

He threw his hands up in surrender. "Whoa, there. I don't know how you figured out my previous profession-cum-culture, but I sure know that you can follow through on your threat. Just hear me out."

She didn't reply, more concerned with swirling her drink and plotting the quickest way out of this cantina.

 _If I had the Force, I could simply push him out of my way. Or persuade him to leave me alone. Ah,_ damnation.

The man sighed. "Please? It's a business proposition. I can't help but wonder about your shoulder patch..."

She froze, her glass held mid-raise. Aside from the refreshing manners atypical of the Outer Rim crowd, it'd been years since someone recognized the squadron insignia stitched on her jacket's sleeve. Let alone someone who _wasn't_ a slave to the blue standard of the Republic.

She glanced down at the said logo, admiring the cartoonish head of a krayt dragon superimposed over the bird-like symbol of the Republic. _96th Republic Starfighter Wing_ , the tiny letters in the circular border spelled, but she knew the squadron by another name.

Krayt Flight was the last and best squadron she'd flown with, and this jacket of brown leather had been a parting gift from them, back when she still believed in the justness of her actions. Back when she still called herself _Jedi._

She shook the memories out of her vision, deciding to indulge him. "Yeah? What about it? Just 'cause I wear it doesn't mean it's mine."

"It fits you perfectly." He flashed a winning smile, before leaning on his arm propped on the bar counter. "So of _course_ it belongs to you, babe, making you a pilot. It so happens that I'm looking for one."

"Cut the nicknames, _braintick_." _Cocky Hutt-slime._ "And sorry to disappoint, but I don't have a ship to fly you somewhere, nor do I want to ferry spice," she snorted, hazarding a guess based on the outfit he wore. Accordingly, like a smuggler.

_But I still miss flying. I won't deny that._

Frustration soured her temporary joy, and her small smile flattened to a tight line. _Enough._ He'd grated on her nerves long enough and she was sick of being bothered.

She gulped down the remains of her drink, slammed the glass on the bartop and made to stand.

To his credit, he hadn't panicked at her leaving. "No, and no. Maxxus - my captain - wants me to hire another pilot for the Pyrrhic Shandy, a cargo freighter, and you seem like an alright sort. That's why I'm asking."

 _Oh?_ Her mind raced with the possibilities. "Cargo freighter," she echoed, eyes seeing everything and nothing at the same time. "Who do you work for?"

If smiles made someone glow, then he was the sun in that instant. He gently tugged her back down to her seat. "Talwain Dispatch. Legit Republic outfit, I assure you. Look us up in the Coruscant Corporate Listings if you want to confirm that."

For the first time in a span of years, she finally felt the stirrings of warmth in her gut - not the hollow flashes that lasted seconds, rather, the wholesome kind that was here to stay.

 _Shavit._ It was getting harder to suppress the phantom sensations from the past; of gut wrenching manoeuvres and sweat-slicked flightsticks, to the reassuring hum of ion engines and the feeling of being in control, despite having only mere layers of metal between her and the vacuum of space.

"I take that you're accepting?"

She fumbled for a reason to decline, so that she could return to her insignificant existence hopping from planet to planet by stowing away in cargo holds, only to find that there was never a decision to make in the first place.

"Yeah," she swallowed, meeting the man's blue-eyed gaze. They were like shards of sapphire, she realised. Vibrant like the waters in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. "Yeah, I accept. Not like I've got anything better to do."

_Not like there's anything left for you, you mean._

"Great," he chuckled heartily, and she couldn't help but let a half-smile creep on her face. "I'll comm my skipper over and he'll wrinkle out the details with you over drinks. Anyway, welcome to the crew."

He moved to clap a hand on her shoulder, but she pushed his hand away and shook her head. "Not big on touching," she shrugged, rolling up her sleeves that had slid to her wrists. "Nothing personal."

There wasn't a specific reason behind that. She was just uncomfortable with physical contact.

"Okay." He sounded unperturbed, and that strangely reassured her.

Once she was done with her sleeves, she glanced up to find him watching her with a cocksure smile, almost as if he was waiting for her.

Strange behaviour, coming from a Mandalorian. Last she checked, they were supposed to be savages with a twisted sense of honour.

"So," he began, signalling the barkeep for a drink as the Falleen emerged from the kitchen. "Since we're gonna be stuck together for quite some time, I'd very much like to know your name. You know, rather than calling you _hey_."

Maybe she'd actually come to like this guy, womaniser or no. Force knew how badly she needed to laugh these days.

He accepted his bubbling tumbler of juma juice from the barkeep and sipped on the bendy straw. "Malius Vox's the name, but I'm fine with Vox. You?"

She opened her mouth in reply, but words failed her all of a sudden. She snapped her mouth shut.

The clinking of glasses and the background murmur of conversation stuck out like a sore thumb in her blank mind. Who was she, indeed?

Was she Venetia Olic, ex-Jedi Knight and Republic General? Former Jar'Kai assistant lightsaber instructor and unwilling player of ruthless calculus? Peacekeeper of the galaxy and vanguard of the Republic military?

Or was she just a has-been, useless to the galaxy but acting as if she had her life under control?

"Ryder. Ryder Anesidora," she said slowly, acquainting herself with those syllables on her tongue.

 _Neither._ She was neither. A new name for a brand new start, and she was sure as hell - all _nine_ Corellian ones - that she was going to make use of this gilt-edged opportunity to stall her spiralling descent into self-destruction.

"Nice to meet you, Ryder." The self-sure smirk was back on his face. "I know we'll get on real great."

Because that meant that she'd be fine, at least for a while, and that was enough.

"If you stop trying to charge up my loading ramp, then yeah, I think so too," she joked.

He was taken aback for an instant, mouth forming a perfect 'o' before he started coughing nervously.

She couldn't help but grin at his discomfort.

_Who needed the Force, anyway?_


	2. At the Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely spam mail couldn't hurt a fly, let alone a sentient being?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _i read them all one day_  
>  _when loneliness came and you were away_  
>  _oh they told me nothing new,_  
>  _but I love to read the words you used_  
>  ([~](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGR4U7W1dZU))

3958 BBY // 2 AMW

Red Romper Cantina  
Security District, Thousand Thousand  
Makem Te

* * *

_the fragments grind and gnash against each other like the fingernails that dig into her palms, the blood of the planet spilling from the cracks of stone in the form of soldiers and ships and lives all snuffed out with the irrevocable pull of the gravity well. Lines snake through the rocks like the veins of a leaf, running across the surface in a-_

"Anything else, miss?"

Ryder palmed her mug of caf a little tighter, watching the tendrils of steam curl in the stale air of the cantina. "I'm fine," she answered.

It was a lie.

Absently, she stuck a hand into her belt pouch for a credit chit, and promptly dropped one into the serving girl's waiting hands.

The Twi'lek beamed - a sweet smile that suited her - before she walked away, clutching the chit close to her chest.

Ryder frowned, almost missing the slight spring in the Twi'lek's step.

_Odd. The tip's barely over ten creds._

Perhaps tipping wasn't just a common practice in the Outer Rim then, she mused with a careful sip of her drink. With a detached air, she observed the blue-skinned server go about her duties at the bar: dispensing drinks, plating snacks - all under the watchful gaze of a burly Houk, whose dirty sleeves were folded at the elbows and had an apron tied around their waist.

Ryder took in the unblemished cheeks and the wide-eyed look on the girl's face, and a sense of disquiet washed over her.

_You can't be older than twenty with that face, and yet you're here._

Still, Ryder wasn't surprised. Whatever that was kept under wraps or done illicitly in Republic space, it was blatantly practised in the Outer Rim - slavery, extortion and the like. A place so soaked in filth and crime that the very air seemed to exude an oily slick that stained her skin, but that was alright.

In this part of the galaxy, identity meant little beyond the superficial, and that was how she wanted it. To be another face in the crowd.

A cheer broke out nearby, and she glanced over in curiousity. The swish of flimsi she heard was unexpected, but so was the shower of cards that the Rodian threw up, accompanying a fist raised in triumph. Their surly Duros oppponent slowly slid a bowl of credits across the table, grumbling incoherently all the way - but that was all she knew of that long-standing round of Pazaak, because she looked away after, distractedly stirring her caf.

_If anyone told me three years ago that I'd be whittling my hours away in a cantina on Makem Te, I would've laughed in their faces._

From her booth in the corner, she could cover the whole expanse of the cantina with a single sweep of her head. Old habits from the war died hard, but it enabled her to indulge in her favourite pastime. With the shadows bathing half her booth in darkness, she could blatantly regard others in silence without having the occasional drunk interrupting her mindless contemplation.

But if vac-heads and Hutt-spawn wanted to give her a beating just 'cause they didn't like the look of her face, she was more than willing to punch back.

On a whim, she reached for her datapad on the table and powered it on with a flick of a switch. Familiar orange letters scrolled down the blue interface, blinking and bright against the semi-darkness of the cantina. She squinted slightly at the vivid contrast.

_Who would've ever known that a Jedi Knight could end up as a freighter pilot, anyway?_

She'd been running for the better part of two years - _still was_ \- trying her damnest to lose sight of her past that loomed like a shadow over her shoulders. No matter what she did, it always caught up with her, buffeting the flame of hope that she'd painstakingly lit over the years.

Suddenly, the meaning of her words sunk in, and she stifled a chuckle.

_Freighter pilot? Ha. Sounds much better than 'smuggler', anyhow._

A ping snatched her out of her reverie, and her eyes scanned the contents of the message box that filled her datapad's screen.

 _Ven, I know you're reading this and you're still ali-_ she deleted the message as fast as her fingers allowed, but she wasn't quick enough to stop the bile from rising in her throat.

 _Stoopa._ Venetia Olic is _dead,_ Ryder repeated to herself above the sudden roaring in her ears, a dull noise that drowned out the funky tunes blaring from the cantina's stereo. _I'm Ryder Anesidora, freighter pilot working for Talwain Dispatch. I just ferry supplies to Republic worlds beyond the Core._

By the time her hands had stopped shaking, her drink had turned lukewarm, so she drunk it down in a single gulp. It was bitter and grainy like sewage, but it did its job; her eyes could now focus on the figures moving about in the cantina, and her ears picked up on the monotonous audio of the HoloNet news broadcast playing on a screen mounted above the bar.

She raked a hand through her shoulder-length locks - _why were they damp?_ \- fluffing her wavy hair into a tousled mess that stuck out in places. A sight that was undoubtedly symptomatic of her chaotic emotions.

Every month, datamail from _her_ would unfailingly arrive, mercilessly digging out the unwanted bones of a not-too-distant past. Before, she'd read the messages in its entirety, marvelling at how Dana wrote every single one differently, but after the turn of a year, she'd stopped reading them. Not when every datamail that went unreplied began to feel like a betrayal - of what and to who, she couldn't figure out.

Dana Kyjj was a former Padawan and an old friend - _still was,_ she thought, if the constant messages meant anything - from a time when purpose thrummed in her veins and doubt was the furthest thing from her mind. She'd left Dana when Alek made the rousing call to arms, leaving behind an apprentice for a war that felt right.

The inevitable crawl of passed time had eroded what memories she had of those precious months before the war, but time could only steal so much from a person.

She recalled those remnants as a series of holostills wholly removed of emotion: the both of them standing on a boarding ramp, Dana's fists clenched, the squared set of Dana's shoulders. A push, a step back, and another - before the ramp rose towards her to shut close.

Time had reduced those moments to the bare bones of fact and logic; even then, fact was what convinced her to leave, and Dana's impassioned arguments held no water with a mind already set on a course of action. The Mandalorians were ransacking worlds, the Republic was struggling to repel them. The Order had sworn to protect the Republic, so the Jedi were honour-bound to respond - that was all to it.

If only she could un-see the very last glimpse of her Padawan, lips pursed and eyes shining with the faintest glimmer of unshed tears. It would've spared her the grief of sleepless nights, brought about by stifling, crushing doubt.

If only.

The same Twi'lek with the blue lekkus - _frak, what a mouthful_ \- ambled by with a steaming pot of caf, and Ryder hailed her for a refill.

_Why, Dana? Why continue trying when the Council has all but shunned me?_

It didn't help that Blue's youthfulness was a discomfiting reminder of her erstwhile Padawan.

Ryder fidgeted in her seat, attempting to make herself more comfortable on the worn cushions. If anything, it was a futile gesture - she only succeeded in alleviating her antsiness, while failing miserably at dodging the blaster bolts peppering her weary mind.

_Most importantly, why do you still believe in me?_

Her Padawan was stubborn, so _very_ stubborn like another on Dantooine, but Bastila Shan knew where her loyalties lay. It was those same loyalties that held Dana Kyjj back from following her master to war, and for that, Ryder was glad. It was already difficult dealing with the needless loss of soldiers under her command, and if the same had happened to Dana...

She caught herself in time, just as her fingers tightened around her datapad. With her eyes squeezed shut, her inner monologue sounded like screams in the void. _No. I will not dwell on the could-have-been's._

A few calming breaths later, her mind was tranquil enough for an idle thought to emerge - a thought free of the emotional baggage that she despised, and far less damning than before.

_When will you give up trying to contact me, I wonder?_

The frown on her lips softened at the simple truth that bubbled within her.

 _Never._ The lack of venom in her answer was a refreshing surprise.

Three months after receiving the unwanted correspondence, she'd vowed not reply to Dana's messages, if only to shield her apprentice from the stinging implications of being associated with her - an exile. Dana didn't deserve to suffer for her mistakes, and she didn't want to hinder her apprentice from becoming anything less than the adept duelist she'd nurtured over the years.

For some reason, her MicroData datapad now weighed as heavy as a ronto. Musings interrupted, Ryder shut off the display and shoved it into an inner pocket of her flight jacket. The moment that slab of plasteel pressed against her chest, an inexplicable sense of calm settled over her. It might've been muted regret, or the grim acceptance of what had come to pass - but she did not begrudge either one bit. It was the right choice staying away, and that was all to it.

 _'Course I don't like it, but it's not like I can ever become Dana's master again. Fierfek, I can't even_ use _the Force._

A quick check of her wrist chrono revealed a little more than a couple of hours before the end of shore leave - after which, hectic weeks of ferrying kolto between the Outer Regions and Manaan would follow, in addition to slipping past Sith patrols and the usual crowd of pirates and shipjackers.

Unfortunately, it also hammered in the sheer tardiness of her copilot. By now, she'd been too desensitised to it to respond with anything else but eye-rolls and exasperated sighs.

She hung her head low, rubbing tired circles on her temples to quell the growing throbbing between her ears. It wasn't likely to work, but she tried it anyway, unwilling to slight that littlest flicker of hope in her chest - one that had always kept her trying, regardless of everything.

_We interrupt our daily program to report the latest developments from the front lines._

A man approached her and dumped his duffel on the grimy tabletop with a thump. Normally, she would've drawn her blaster before anyone could come within five feet of her, but the odour of cleaning fluid and starship fuel she picked up long before had revealed everything she needed to know about this particular person.

He ungraciously dropped himself on the seat opposite her. "How's my favourite _ori'vod_ doing today? You look like you need a quick tumble between the sheets."

 _Not interested, never will be._ Unless her headache miraculously abated in the next few minutes, she wasn't going to open her eyes. "Certainly not by you."

"Ouch, Ryder. How can you be so cruel?" he whined with a pout, accepting the proffered glass of juma from Blue. With a crooked grin, he uttered a _thank you_ to the serving girl with enough flirtatious inflection to make the Twi'lek flee the table with cheeks a few shades redder than before.

Ryder waited for the servant girl to duck out of earshot before letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Please, Vox. As if you even care."

"Well, anything to make you laugh. Or will your face crack if you do?"

"Nerf-head," Ryder retorted, smirking at the familiar jibe.

_It has been confirmed that Sith forces under the command of Darth Malak and Admiral Saul Karath have bombed Telos, ravaging great expanses of the planet's lush plains. As I speak, firefighter crews still struggle to control the fires raging across the planet._

She'd known Malius Vox for some time now, ever since she stumbled into a cantina with nothing but the clothes on her back and the things filling her pockets. With a pompadour crowning angular features, it was no wonder that the cheeky bastard had the balls to chat up _everyone_ who crossed his path.

Vox knocked back his juma with a flourish and a contented hum, a gesture that was quintessentially _him_. "Hey, it's not like I'd want to try feeling you up," he muttered darkly. "I have more decency than that. _And_ I still remember how ready you were to flatten that sleaze back on Nar Shaddaa."

She flashed him a predatory grin. "I know you won't, Vox. You need all of your _equipment_ to do what you love to do - and that's something I don't want to know."

_Republic forces led by Captain Carth Onasi have arrived in the wake of the destruction. Preliminary reports are not promising, with many wounded and countless dead. Further details to follow._

"I'm glad we understand each other perfectly." He clinked his glass with her cup of caf, before draining whatever dregs that remained.

Pictures flash across the holoscreen above the bar; burning, wrecked buildings in glorious colour, so reminiscent of those years that it was enough to hold her attention. Dxun, Duro, Eres III... The list of planets had been endless, and so had the casualties.

She didn't realise Vox was watching too till he spoke up. "They're real sacks of bantha dung, eh? These barvy Force types. Sometimes, I wonder if the galaxy's better off without 'em."

Watching the broadcast was like watching a speeder crash in slow-mo - she couldn't seem to look away. "Don't doubt it, Vox. They're monsters."

_I knew them once, though. Or maybe I never knew them at all._

She almost choked on her caf. Painful truth was always hard to ignore.

_I used to be like them. Am I no better?_

Their mugshots filled the holoscreen: Alek and Lennox, both warped into unrecognisable versions of themselves. The corruption of the Dark Side showed in Alek's ashen face, with faint scars twisting their way across cracking skin like an intricate pattern. Lennox, however, was a face shrouded by a foreboding mask she's seen them wear before; with slits for eyes and stripes of red - _blood?_ \- slicing through them.

To think that she'd grown up with them? She could barely picture them without the baleful glares of amber-rimmed irises, or even how they looked like before the War. Now, they were just shadows to her, flickering dark and faint in her mind's eye.

It took her a moment to realise the prickling at the base of her neck, and moments longer to realise her copilot's worried gaze boring into her.

"Ryder, you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Inevitably, Ryder's fingers crept to the tattoo on her left wrist; tracing the trees inked on her skin.

She couldn't remember when she started rubbing the tattoo of trees inked on her left wrist with her right thumb, but she stopped it anyway. "Maybe I did."

Vox's gaze turned blank at her words, but her comlink beeped before he could ground out the question hanging off the tip of his tongue.

Her comlink blinked its green warning light thrice, before a deep voice filtered through its speakers. "Vox, Anesidora, haul your asses back to the ship. We're leaving."

Grabbing the minuscule handset off the table, she replied drolly, "Understood. We'll be there."

Across her, Vox grumbled his displeasure. "Is it just me, or do I think that the boss used to run with Gamorrean slavers?"

Maxxus chuckled over the crackling of the line. "I heard that, Vox."

Ryder emptied her cup as she rose from her seat, only to hear Vox let out a hearty burp. Where she had initially planned to walk out of the cantina with her copilot, she now decided otherwise, striding off with Vox protesting in her wake. It wasn't like she couldn't tolerate his complete lack of manners - she used to be a _soldier_ , for kark's sake; she'd lived through worse - but today was not the day.

They left through a side exit in the end, unwilling to shove through a group of rowdy Rodians clustered at the main doors; the haphazard honking of the ridgeheads incentive enough for the smugglers to put distance between them and the cantina.

In the corridors, the stench of stale of air slammed into her like a brick - Ryder constantly thanked the ventilation systems of underground habitation for that exquisite experience. "Ever wondered if smuggling for the Pubs was a karked-up idea?"

"Nah. I'm not too keen on having homicidal _aruetiise_ conquering the galaxy. Especially if they can use their blasted magic powers to murder people with a flick of their fingers."

She smothered a snort at his words, unwilling to mention that his kind had, in fact, tried to do the same not too long ago. Sans the Force powers.

Somehow, she found her fingers pressed on her wrist tattoo again, but this time, she didn't pull them away because of the sudden heaviness in her limbs. "Me too."

If she couldn't do it with her lightsabers in hand, ferrying kolto supplies was enough. It was the only thing she could do anyway, when part of her had been torn out so callously just to save the rest.

The loose-lipped rogue was finally silent for once, as the turbolift ascended to return them to the surface. There was just something about Mandalorians that made them such stuck-up loudmouths, but Malius Vox was a strange one. Where his kin would make no apologies towards their actions during the previous war, he would occasionally allude to the biting remorse he felt - unconsciously or no, she had no idea.

She caught his attention with a simple tap on his elbow. "Did Maxxus say where we're going next?"

"Dantooine," he answered nonchalantly, walking out of the turbolift without breaking his stride.

Suddenly, Ryder found her lungs emptied of breath in the windy walkways of Thousand Thousand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ori'vod means 'special friend' in Mando'a.
> 
> Why not Mical as the apprentice? Cause both the wiki and in-game interaction are vague about his r/ship with the Exile - some pages mention that the Exile was his mentor, while others simply said that he wanted the Exile as a Master.
> 
> My verdict? Creative liberty.


	3. Gasoline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, nothing like uncomfortable conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _i'm swimming in the smoke_  
>  _of bridges I have burned_  
>  _so don't apologize_  
>  _i'm losing what I don't deserve_  
>  ([~](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBC1yt5NQFQ))

3957 BBY // 3 AMW

Landing Pad, Jedi Enclave  
Dantooine

* * *

Dantooine looked the same; the gentle blue of the sky hanging over the brown roofs of the Enclave, the planted trees at the corners of the landing pad still evergreen with a smattering of apprentices and merchants milling around them.

It was like her Padawan days again, but if she stayed quiet enough, the niggling stillness within her would become impossible to ignore.

"Help me with the crates, will you? You've been gawkin' from your corner."

Ryder turned away from the sight, moving off the boarding ramp and back into the Shandy's cargo bay. "Stomach ache," she bluffed, rubbing circles on her stomach for emphasis.

The frown Vox shot her way stank of decades-old weariness. "And I'm the Queen of Naboo."

She watched him stack crates of kolto onto a hovercart with a grunt. Once done, he wiped his hands on his pants and gave her a pointed look.

That look was a question she refused to answer. "Go bother Giles instead, will you? I've crates to load," she said with a dismissive wave, before grabbing an empty hovercart in the corner.

He shrugged before getting back to work. "Don't say I didn't ask, now."

Before she could handle her first crate, a gray-furred Bothan stuck his head from behind the doorway leading deeper into the ship. "I heard my name?"

"Nothing, fuzzball," Vox answered from behind a loaded hovercart. "Your old ears are getting- well, _old._ "

"Lacking in manners as usual, I see." Giles shook his head as he stepped into the cargo bay, clipboard tucked under a sleeve-covered arm. He patted the pockets of his pants and vest in search of something, before realising that his glasses were hooked on his collar. Huffing, he placed the crooked pair on the edge of his snout, and that little detail made him appear too wizened for his current occupation - but the best criminals _didn't_ resemble criminals, Ryder mused.

"Giles, just ignore him." The crate was heavier than expected, and Ryder struggled to place it on her cart. This could've been resolved in seconds with the Force, but someone _just_ had to lose her connection to it.

Correction: _some people_ just had to take it away from her.

"Thank the stars you exist, Ryder. Your manners are like fresh air to that boy's insolence." Giles took in the sight of loaded hovercarts with his typical impassivity (read: squinting through his glasses) before grasping Ryder's shoulder. "I'm well aware you pilots don't normally handle the cargo, but it's a big shipment this time. Help an old man out, will you?"

Somehow, she knew in her gut the kriffing request that would spill from his lips. "H- Help you deliver the shipment?"

Giles nodded, the artificial ceiling light of the cargo hold glinting off his half-moon spectacles. Ryder vaguely heard Vox cough down a snigger from behind a stack of crates, because the pounding in her chest drowned out everything but.

"Sure." Ryder swallowed, her throat inexplicably drying up.

Giles grinned his toothy grin in appreciation before scrutinising the flimsi tacked on the clipboard in his hands; the epitome of a technophobe in an era where datapads offered convenience in managing shipping manifests and other administrative what-have-you's that Ryder hadn't bothered familiarising herself with. (...and why should she?)

 _Fierfek._ Keeping a straight face amidst the pounding in her ears took all of Ryder's concentration; even then, she realised it just wasn't (humanely) possible. Hence, she hurriedly glanced out of the ship's open hatch and sought the view of fluffy clouds in the sky, whistling a tune that sounded flat to her to ears.

_Why does everything happen to me?_

\----

_If I can't feel the Force, can other Force-users sense me? Hell, without the Force, I can't even confirm that._

Once the security officer was satisfied with the paperwork Giles had provided, the officer activated the Enclave's maintenance doors. Ryder followed Giles' lead through the entrance, nudging forward the two hovercarts she held on to while deliberately shielding her face behind the crates stacked on them.

Though she'd shorn off her loose side-braids in favour of shorter hair, it was still a superficial change - a disguise that would _surely_ fall away if people like Dana Kyjj stared at her long enough. Also, if the Masters could indeed sense her, she might as well break into the Enclave's main courtyard and toss herself into the fountain. Or threaten to eat blaster bolts in full view of the apprentices back at the landing pad. Whichever could attract the most attention.

Her new hairstyle had raised questions that stayed at the common table, but only Vox had prolonged it into endless egging. Like a Sith, once that man smelled weakness, he refused to relent in his assault till he succeeded.

It didn't help that this was one part of her life she wanted tucked away nicely in some cobwebbed corner of her psyche, just like the clothes folded primly at the bottom of her locker.

Lost in thought, Ryder failed to see this coming: she lost her footing on a loose tile.

The hovercart on her left jerked, its crates rattling dangerously. The entryway of a turbolift came into view so perilously close to the sides of her crates, threatening to knock them off their stacks.

The next few moments passed with Ryder's heart in her mouth: a nudge here, a little pull there, and the carts were delicately transported into the turbolift, placed flush against the third cart that Giles was responsible for. Only when the doors shut closed did her heart slide back into the hollow of her chest, and she let loose a ragged sigh.

Thankfully, no rebukes came; not even from the Shandy's quartermaster who insisted that shipment crates be stacked according to alphabetical order of goods, despite company regulations of sorting according to shipment locations. Giles was a pain in the choobies at times, and Ryder was immensely grateful for her near-mistake slipping his notice.

She sank against a wall, grateful that Giles' humming could silence the heaving of her chest. "Remind me, Giles. How did resupplying Republic troops turn into restocking the Jedi's kolto stocks?"

From his spot by the lift's control console, Giles wrinkled his snout. "Aren't the Jedi part of the Republic?"

He resumed his humming, which she recognised as a rendition of a Bothan folk song. Not sure if he'd butchered it, though - she hadn't heard the original.

At his response, she pursued her lips, keenly aware that the old coot was just inclined towards non-answers. That didn't mean she had to like it. Times like these, she couldn't help but wonder about her companions, especially about the identities they put forth as their public personas. Save for Mhaila, she didn't know the sordid stories of her fellow crewmates. Her gut insisted that everyone had a reason that bound them to the Pyrrhic Shandy, and her gut hardly failed her.

However improbable and delusional it was, she liked to think her instincts were the work of the Force.

Giles must've seen her put-off expression, because he fired off an indignant reply. "Well, don't ask this old man then. I'm just the quartermaster with lots of friends. Maxxus makes the decisions."

Ryder was on the cusp of muttering half-hearted reassurances in reply, but the turbolift dinged first. The Bothan looked away, too distracted by the opening doors, and the moment faded away like the the pain of remembrance.

_Sure, Giles. It's extremely common for mere quartermasters to have a list of contacts as endless as yours. Like what information brokers also possess._

She helped Giles move the hovercarts into the corridors in comfortable silence, but she couldn't shake off the feeling of the Enclave's walls pressing down on her, even though she was acutely aware that such a thing was structurally impossible.

She tried brushing off the sensation with a dismissive roll of her eyes, but the clamminess of her skin made the crates cold to her touch, and she made up her mind.

"Giles, I can't go further." Her lips moved slowly to form those words, almost as if in protest of the lies coming out of them. "Need to use the 'fresher."

The Bothan glanced over his shoulder with a huff, his attempts at wiping his glasses clean interrupted. "Now? Sure, sure. Let the old man handle everything." Nonplussed, he added under his breath," _Younglings._ "

She'd no reason to feel this, but a guilt stirred in Ryder's gut. "I'll comm Vox to help you. Promise."

"Please. Before my bones break."

That was the last thing Ryder heard as she ducked into a side passageway.

It was agonising to dispel the thought that she wasn't heading for her lessons, that she wasn't in a rush to the dining hall to grab a slice of ryshcate before they ran out.

Her head spun on seeing the familiar earthen hues of the walls and flagstones that passed her by, so much so that it took her a near-collision with a pillar in the winding corridors to remember the call she'd yet to make.

After exiting the stairs, Ryder launched herself into a nearby chair in the ground-floor corridor, struggling to rein in her staccato-ed breathing. After wiping the sweat from her brow, she fished out her comlink from a belt pouch with a hand that shook in time to the thumping in her chest.

She didn't know how she managed it, but her words came out less shakier than she imagined it would. "Vox, help Giles with the crates. He's outside the maintenance turbolift on the basement level. Gotta hightail to the 'fresher."

"I thought you were joking about that. Did Mhaila spike your food again?" He paused over the line, and the sight of him scrunching his forehead in thought came to mind. "Actually, don't tell me. I'd like to think that Cathar cuisine is safe for us humans."

She grinned at his words, feeling the stifling pressure ease. "Better hope she didn't hear that. Cathars have sharp claws."

"Oh, you know me. I _love_ annoying people. Besides, she can't hear that 'cause she's helping Maxxus with trade on the Enclave grounds."

The connection ended with a telltale click. Ryder gingerly rose to her feet, simultaneously hooking her comlink onto her belt.

_Sometimes, I can't decide if he's being a sarcastic stoopa, or he actually means them._

She scanned her surroundings, taking note of the rooms lining the corridor and the art pieces hanging on the walls. A few of which were especially familiar, such as the painting of Ord Mantell's Ten Mile Plateau, but it wasn't because she spent her free hours as an apprentice wandering these halls. Still, she was perfectly content to let that anomaly slide.

Once done reorienting herself, Ryder strode off, feet already treading a familiar path out of the Enclave and footsteps resounding with a constant _thump-thump_ that reassured her in their inanity. Only now could she confidently declare that at least _something_ went right.

Five doors down in a kriffing long hallway, she couldn't believe her luck - the Jedi had _yet_ to eject her from these halls, and she was striding through wholly deserted corridors. Moreover, for a floor with training rooms that held morning lessons (as far as she knew) it was uncharacteristically devoid of activity.

Part of her knew something had to be amiss - hell, her intel was practically _history_ \- but the rest of her couldn't care less, not when escape was a scant minute away. Specifically, it was one more corridor, past the simulation rooms and equipment stores before she'd arrive at a back exit.

This wasn't how she'd planned her homecoming, but it wasn't like she could plan it in the first place. Ryder ended the thought with a humourless smile.

She believed in the echoing of her footsteps, foolishly thinking that her luck could hold, until she realised a little _too_ late the inconsistent pattern of _thumps_ in the hallway that accompanied the sharp clinking of metal on metal.

Ryder broke into a careful jog, the fear of detection spurring her into action. The closer she was to the end of the hallway, the easier it became to listen in on a conversation happening somewhere close by. Judging from its volume, it originated from a room ahead of her - meaning, she could simply sprint past without them realising.

Slipping out undetected seemed to become a certainty as Ryder neared the end of the hallway. But as all plans went, there was always a hitch - and that was her making the mistake of glancing into that last room on her left, a well-honed reflex triggered by the sound of _her_ voice.

Once Ryder saw _her_ , her legs severed all communication with her mind that was screaming at her to _run_.

There were two of them - Dana and the fair-skinned Padawan with pigtails - arranging training sabers in the room, its walls lined with metal racks and storage lockers. It had to be the abrupt ceasing of Ryder's heavy footfalls in the corridor that made the gray-eyed Padawan glance up from the gleaming cylinders in her hands, and Ryder knew she was _doomed_.

Like an iriaz in headlights, Ryder found that she _couldn't_ turn tail and bolt, for her legs had been inexplicably swapped with rods of durasteel.

The Padawan gave Ryder a once-over: incredulous gaze roving over the nosering, beat-up flight jacket and military-grade boots, before fixing Ryder with a steely glare. "This area is off-limits to you, spacer."

"Bastila, who're yo- _Master?_ "

The old title staggered Ryder like a stun bolt, and Ryder took off - or at least, she _tried_ to, before a hand grabbed her wrist and another spun her around by her shoulders.

" _Venetia?_ " Dana repeated breathlessly. Like she couldn't believe her eyes. "Venetia Olic, my one-time saviour, lightsaber instructor and eternal hero?"

Ryder came across a fascinating whorl of grime on her own boots, heat warming her cheeks just for hearing Dana's appraisal of her. She didn't deserve such admiration.

Dana's hands clenched around Ryder's shoulders in a painful vice, so much so that Ryder could barely wiggle out of Dana's grip without hurting herself. She gave up the thought after, and reluctantly dragged her head up to meet Dana's searching gaze.

Seeing the hope and joy in Dana's brown irises only heightened the gnawing sense of weariness burrowed deep inside her chest. "It's me, Dana," Ryder said softly.

Dana's fingers weren't cutting into her shoulders like talons anymore - shock, maybe? - so Ryder carefully pried those fingers away.

Beside Dana, Bastila's eyes widened to the size of saucers before narrowing to slits. " _The_ Exile?" she gasped.

Dana exhaled noisily. "With the hairdo and piercings? I don't fault you one bit for not recognizing her, Bas. She looks more bounty hunter than Jedi Knight. I mean, that's not saying much, because Jedi don't have fashion sense. Just... look at our robes."

Ryder had to bite the inside of her cheek to _not_ laugh; though Dana grinned like a blinker high on spice, Ryder didn't feel antagonising Bastila was a good idea.

Both Padawans seemed to cast her in a new light, with Bastila radiating more latent hostility than before, but the scrutiny was unwelcome regardless, coiling the knot in Ryder's gut far tighter than she believed possible. There was a reason why she busted her shebs trying to pass off as _just_ a former Republic starfighter pilot for one, and to see it possibly blow up in her face?

She needed to get out of here. "Listen, I can't be seen with the both of you. I have to go-"

"Kriff that, Ven," Dana scoffed, dragging her along by the wrist. "What the Council doesn't know won't hurt them."

_Are you so sure they're that oblivious?_

Ryder was powerless to stop her former Padawan thundering through the corridors with her in tow - thankfully along a route that Ryder would've taken out anyway - so she turned to the other Padawan tagging along behind them.

Bastila returned Ryder's bemused smile with a tight-lipped one, before clearing her throat. "Dana, I'll-"

"Bas, _shh_ ," Dana sniped back, before slamming a fist on the back exit's activation button. "If you don't like it, then leave."

Ryder stifled a chuckle with the back of her hand. _Still headstrong and obstinate? That's my girl._

Bastila's terse grimace of before softened to a crooked grin. "I wanted to inform you that I was just leaving."

Bastila gave Ryder a meaningful look - which presumably meant _hurt Dana and I'll gut you_ \- before heading back down the corridor, leaving Ryder and Dana on the threshold of the open door out.

_Vrook's crankiness isn't as contagious as once thought. All is not lost._

Dana was still staring at Bastila's retreating form with knitted brows, so Ryder gently wrested her hand out of Dana's grasp for the second time today. _Seriously._

On impulse, Ryder took a closer look at that hand, noticing the faint red rings around her wrist that didn't quite manage to hide her green veins showing through her thin brown skin.

"Oh, that's new," Dana muttered haltingly, after a few heartbeats of silence. "Here I thought she was on her way to becoming another Vrook."

The raven-haired woman turned on her heel and exited the building without a backward glance.

Ryder trailed after her apprentice - _former_ , she reminded herself - mind reflecting on a minor detail. Despite all that had occurred, Dana _still_ trusted Ryder to not haul jets at the earliest opportunity and disappear like she had years ago. Naive, or hopeful?

The tension in Ryder's gut unwound at the sight that greeted her: rolling hills of Dantooine farmland as far as she could see, dotted only by the occasional tree that jutted out from the sea of greenery. A slight breeze tickled her exposed wrists, and Ryder rubbed those parts to occupy herself while waiting for Dana to explain why they'd stopped near a cluster of trees.

_Still, why haven't I left?_

After a few moments of consideration, Dana sat in the shadow of a nearby blba tree and gestured Ryder to follow. Noticing the frown on Ryder's face, Dana added, "Relax, Council meeting's still in progress. The ones who matter are still busy."

Right now, Ryder didn't know what frightened her more - the discovery of her presence by the Council or the unravelling of the façade some knew as 'Ryder Anesidora'.

Even then, the Council might've already sensed her, but it was a thought she quickly shoved to the back of her mind. The less she thought about it, the happier she'd be.

Ryder's comlink beeped all of a sudden, drawing Dana's attention to it like a mynock to power currents, but she shut it off moments later.

She expected the silence to be stifling, but it strangely wasn't.

"So," Dana said without preamble. "Spacer, eh?"

At Ryder's muted nod, Dana continued blithely. "Freighter crew, or-" a grin stretched between the woman's cheeks, and she air-quoted her next words "- _freighter_ crew?"

"Smuggler, pilot, security - does it really matter?" Ryder said, ticking the mental list off with her fingers. When she saw Dana's eyelids twitch at the corners, Ryder added hastily, "Smuggle kolto. And other medical supplies. Refugees sometimes. No spice, oh _no_ , none whatsoever. I'd _never_ stoop to that."

Dana's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline, before she started guffawing like a tauntaun. "I was just teasing you, Ven, but your reaction was _priceless._ You sure that's all you do?"

Feeling foolish all of a sudden, Ryder bit her tongue. _Stars, we used to be close. Very close. Why am I treading carefully around her?_

Her tactical mind, normally so adept at formulating countermeasures in response to changing battlefield conditions, drew a blank at that.

Dana sobered up quickly, adjusting her posture to lounge on the tree trunk with arms cradling her head. "How'd you end up as that, anyway? Of all things to do, this was the last thing I expected."

 _You_ don't _want to know how many times I've asked myself that._

"Maybe I wanted to pull a Bindo, maybe I accepted the first offer that came my way. I used to fly starfighters in my free time, remember? Not _that_ surprising."

_Maybe I subconsciously recognised the need for people around me to keep me sane, too._

"Well, whatever your reasons, at least you're doing what you like, Ven. It's nice to know you're doing fine." Dana had turned to face her then, the simple sincerity of her words knocking Ryder off guard.

She couldn't fathom why, but Dana's declaration sent tingles of warmth that pooled in her belly. Was it the unexpected acceptance? Or the realisation that unshakeable faith of a Padawan in her Master ( _former_ , for kark's sake) still existed?

Staying a little while longer didn't summon the familiar weight of guilt. "How's your dueling? Bested Master Zhar yet?"

"He says I'm on my way. I take that as a compliment." Dana paused, suddenly looking as if she'd swallowed gizka shit - and Ryder just _knew_ something monumental was afoot. "I have to, anyway. They've picked me for a strike team."

"Strike tea- to kill _who?_ "

There was no need to guess that person's identity. Ryder wasn't blind to the swathe of destruction sweeping across the galaxy - shavit, with the rising demand for kolto in the last few months and pressure from the Republic to slash prices, it wasn't a stretch to put two and two together.

Anyone but _them_. There was this flicker of hope burning deep in Ryder's chest, and she refused to let it go out. Anyone but _them_.

The mirthless expression on Dana's face remained though, and Ryder felt that flicker of flame splutter.

"Darth Revan," Dana replied tonelessly, and Ryder sucked in a harsh breath. The flame was now a smoking wisp. "Me, Bastila and a few other Knights are going to board his flagship and capture him."

Ryder shot to her feet at Dana's words, proceeding to worry holes in the grass with her fervent pacing. _Them_ , not _him_. Grant Revan that courtesy, at least, and _why was she wasting her thoughts on Revan?_ Rubbing her face in frustration did nothing to ease the revelations clogging her airways, and she bit back a Huttese curse.

"Why aren't the Masters going, then?" Ryder started indignantly - livid, even. The plan was a shitload of bantha crap. "They're infinitely more skilled in the Force, so why send freshly-minted Jedi out like bantha for slaughter?"

The heady sense of anger inflamed Ryder's senses, smothering her capacity for rational thought - but all it took was a few deep breaths before the meaning of it buckled her knees like a blaster bolt to the joint, and she stopped in her tracks. She'd always understood war, like Revan did.

_But the Order wouldn't go that far, would they? Bombing Revan's flagship and distracting them with a strike force to capture them?_

Ryder dismissed the thought. This was the same Order who refused to fight in the Mandalorian Wars.

The only sounds in the weighted silence were the fluttering of robes in the breeze and the rustling of grass under their feet - quiet enough for her to hear her breath mist in the chilly farmland evening.

Hesitantly, she turned to face her former apprentice, unwilling to acknowledge the inevitable truth that was surely written in Dana's expression.

What she saw intensified the unnameable turmoil within her, crystallising the stinging helplessness of being unable to wean Dana _off_ and _out_ of this karking plan.

In all the years Ryder spent training Dana Kyjj, she'd never seen her so devoid of life.

"What is our worth compared to a Master?" Dana reasoned, calm - _blasphemous_ \- words and relaxed posture so jarring to Ryder's stiff shoulders and balled fists.

Ryder instinctively crouched in front of Dana, craving the physical connection of her hands on Dana's shoulders, if only to painfully reassure herself that this was real, instead of a malignant Force apparition or a stress-induced hallucination.

Those brown eyes that stared back at her were resolute. Not resigned, but resolute. _Unyielding._

"You're just going along with this... _plan?_ " Ryder almost spat, not bothering to hide her distaste.

"If we don't, who will? The Republic's counting on us."

_Or maybe the Order was counting on Knights being less conspicuous in the Force than Masters. To sell the deception._

Ryder couldn't put a finger on it at first, but she was now aware of the faint droplets of calm that had been peppering her like the drizzles of rain on Serroco. If they came as they were meant to, instead of the muffled echoes from a distance, it could've taken the edge off her cutting unease.

Still, holding Dana's gaze served only to twist the vibroblade lodged deep inside her chest, so Ryder looked away first, head shaking an insistent denial. "Even though it's a suicide mission?"

Then it struck her: Dana was trying to soothe her using the Force. But wasn't she cut off from it?

"Ven, we'll make it. We always do," Dana stated firmly, the earnestness in her words bringing a rueful smile to Ryder's face. "Besides, my Knighthood trials are happening next month. That has to mean something, right?"

Ryder didn't know if that was naive bravado or the public front of a terrified child, but she realised with a pang that it didn't matter now.

Facing certain death with quiet determination and nary a tremble - it was simple selflessness and courage. That knowledge filled Ryder with immense pride towards the person sitting in front of her, a woman barely older than twenty.

On impulse, Ryder reached out to wrap her flummoxed ex-Padawan in a bone-crushing hug, eliciting a muffled _mmmph_ in response.

"Trials are irrelevant," Ryder insisted, clutching Dana a fraction tighter than before. "To me, you're already one."

_I don't like it, but what else can I say? I can only hope that she walks out of this alive._

Ryder wasn't sure if those small words mattered much to Dana, but she meant them anyway. Knowing how it felt walking into the jaws of death, like she had on Malachor, she only wished someone had done the same for her; someone who _hadn't_ chosen to betray her in the worst possible way.

Just as awkwardness reared its hideous head, a pair of arms snaked around her sides without hesitation.

"Hey, Ven? Thank you," Dana managed in a near-whisper, and Ryder didn't mistake the hint of emotion in her words.

Ryder could get used to this.

_Beep, Beep, Beep_

Those monochromatic beeps sounded like klaxons in the charged air, hammering in the realisation that she needed to leave soon. Disentangling herself from the embrace, Ryder let her arms fall to her sides before appraising Dana with a curious look.

She didn't know if she was imagining things, but it felt as if Dana had reluctantly let her go - but she squished the thought as fast as it came.

'twas as if a switch had been flicked inside Ryder's mind, because what else could explain the sudden clarity of thought like black cast against white?

Dropping her gaze, Ryder flopped back on her bum, wrapping her arms around herself like a lifeline. She snuck a glance at Dana, but there were no answers in the woman's veiled gaze, a dearth of certainty that Ryder really minded having right now.

_What the frack are you doing?_

What was she _thinking,_ letting herself spend time with Dana when she'd swore never to close the distance between them? The Jedi had their heroes, and Ryder wasn't one of them - especially not after everything that had happened.

She was an exile, an outcast, a Knight that fell from grace when she raised her saber to kill; that was all Dana and the other Jedi should see, not this spacer fumbling to piece together the shattered fragments of her existence. Noble intentions weren't enough and shouldn't even be used to justify her behaviour.

She didn't want Dana - or anyone else - to believe in her again, not when she offered nothing but ruin in return. To linger would be cruel, and she refused to twist the vibroshiv. She would burn the stem from which the flower bloomed, and she would _not_ hesitate.

In that infinitesimal moment, she was Jedi Knight Venetia Olic no longer, but General Olic: that one person who'd vapourise a planet if the situation called for it.

_Just like Revan._

"You're not going to stay awhile?"

Dana's face betrayed no hint of new emotion, cheeks still dimpled by a smile. She looked hopeful, innocent. That face was marred neither by calamity or regret, and it was a face Ryder didn't want to see bloodied by the horrors lurking in the galaxy.

Regardless, years of familiarity revealed the hollowness of Dana's expression. Her eyes weren't sparkling.

_Will you twist the knife?_

"I can't. Dana, I need to go. Shipments to deliver, you know?" Ryder stood, unconsciously tugging down the sleeves of her jacket to cover her wrists. There was a dull ache deep inside her chest, and she pointedly ignored it.

In the poignant silence between them, Ryder waited for a vocal reply that never came - instead, all she received was a subdued nod from her former Padawan who refused to look at her; which was more than what Ryder deserved.

Ryder backed away with tiny steps, dragging her boots across the grass before finally turning her back on the one thing she was loathe to lose after the Force.

"Clear skies, Ven," Ryder barely heard Dana say, the words themselves plunging into the chasm of silence of silence that had cracked open between them.

Ryder didn't have the heart to correct her.

It was the right thing to do, that much Ryder knew, the sureness mirrored in her purposeful strides as she skirted the edges of the Enclave. She hadn't felt this confident ever since Alek's rallying cry during the Mandalorian Wars, but like the last, there was this niggling doubt at the back of her mind that refused to be silenced. But what was done was done - that thought a consolation at best, and a stinging reminder at worst.

She didn't remember much of the Enclave after, the short trek back to the ship fading into a blur of green and brown hues. There was the occasional word, scattered and inquisitive, but they flew right over her head, for her hands were stuffed in her pockets and her head hung low.

She stopped counting the specks of dust caught in her bootlaces only when the humming of ship engines filled her ears. The sight of an Iridonian on the Shandy's boarding ramp wasn't surprising, to say the least.

"Where were you?" Maxxus was curt as usual, face impassive and betraying nothing. His words were phrased as a question, yet she was certain he knew the answer to it anyway.

She noted the presence of an ugly scratch on the ramp as she walked up its surface. "Away," she shrugged, unwilling to say more.

It wasn't that she wanted to lie, especially to those who'd gifted her a new lease of life. She just didn't want an emotionally draining interrogation - not now, not _ever._ The best way to do it? Shut her kriffing mouth.

Maxxus favoured her with a calculating eye, head tilted imperceptibly to a side; an intense look that seemingly cut through the pretenses she wore like a cloak, but he turned on his heel, leaving her feeling mercifully relieved.

_Fierfek, I swear his eyepatch only makes his glares more sinister._

"Prep the ship for launch. Vox's already in the cockpit," he muttered over his shoulder, just before rounding the corner and into the ship.

Ryder was only too delighted to comply, having been spared the unsettling queries that would've been flung at her had it been Vox waiting for her instead. Pausing to slam her fist on the controls, she watched the ramp pull up in the wake of wheezing hydraulics, before making her way to the cockpit with a skip in her step.

Ordinarily, she would've dismissed her Captain's rather tame reaction to her lateness. Had she failed to notice the Iridonian's features softening momentarily before he walked off, she would've attributed his swift exit to his endless responsibilities as the Shandy's skipper - but she hadn't, leaving her chewing on that puzzling morsel of information.

Ryder idly dragged her fingers along the Shandy's metal walls as she headed for the cockpit, savouring the feel of bumps and corners on the pads of her fingers. The ship hummed beneath her touch like it always did, and sometimes, she swore it was just as alive as them, instead of being _just_ a collection of electronics and wires.

It was - essentially - a reminder that she could still sense something beyond the mundane, even without the Force. Plus, she was in no hurry to test if she could indeed feel sporadic flashes of the Force. That path only led to a bottomless pit of self-pity and a worthless waste of time.

"Ryder, was it the juma berries? This one didn't know you couldn't take them raw."

"No idea, Mhaila," Ryder replied as she leant on the medbay's doorframe. "Doesn't matter, anyway. Wasn't a crippling stomach ache."

The Cathar accepted her words with a relieved grin, before turning her attention back to the medpac in her hands.

Ryder couldn't help but let loose a humourless smirk at that, even in spite of the emotional meatgrinder of today's events. Stomachache, indeed.

Feeling slightly better, her mind began to sketch a mental flight plan to Manaan. After all, anything was better than lingering planetside; on this blasted rock especially. Plus, if she'd played her cards right back at the Enclave back at the Enclave, then Dana would stop bombarding her with datamails.

She hoped that would last forever.


	4. Sink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Force bonds go both ways. What about the other end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _when I was younger, I never thought_  
>  _that when I was older, I'd see you give up_  
>  _now that I'm older, I carry the torch_  
>  _just promise you'll stand and you'll be strong_  
>  ([~](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLu0WqP-KE4))

3957 BBY // 3 AMW

Padawan Quarters, Habitation Wing  
Jedi Enclave  
Dantooine

* * *

 

The silver crystal Dana held in her hands weighed next to nothing; the misshapen (Conical, she told herself. _Conical_ ) hunk all hewn edges and lusterless sides, but radiating an inner glow that belied its outward appearance.

The crystal didn't belong to her. It belonged to _her._

_Ven, why'd you have to leave so quickly? I forgot about returning it to you in the mad rush._

She sensed a presence lingering on the edges of her consciousness, wrapped up in questions and doubt. A beat, before those paralysing emotions melted into resolve, and the door slid open with a _whoosh._

She didn't need to reach out with the Force to know who the person was. The careful steps she heard and the hint of grass tickling her nostrils were far more telling than a hurried Force probe.

Dana carried on heedlessly, placing the crystal at the corner of the worktop. Hefting her shoto's hilt, she unscrewed the central metal plate and twisted open the crystal housing beneath with a finger. Beneath it laid a spherical crystal with a grave fissure running down its length; that it was still holding was a miracle. Had it shattered completely during her final trial two days ago - well, she would still be wearing her Padawan braid, for one.

She wasn't too worried about Bastila's silence. Whatever her friend needed to get off her chest, she would. It had always been a matter of time.

Dana felt an abrupt shift in the eddies of the Force, and the door's lock clicked into place. Undoubtedly, the forgettable clicking of the lock understated its significance, but the meaning of it wasn't lost on her.

_If she's scrambling for words to talk about what I think she wants to talk about, then I'm just surprised that she took this long to muster up the courage._

Still, Dana shrugged, and walked over to the footlocker at the base of her bed. The latch popped open with a satisfying _snick_ and Dana rummaged through her belongings, all the while wondering if fish stew was on the menu tonight. To her, anything was better than nerf-based dishes, and no amount of credits in the galaxy would convince her otherwise.

Once her fingers closed around a rat-nibbled pouch, Dana pulled it out, shut her footlocker, and returned to the workbench. The pouch was filled with crystals she'd harvested from a nearby cave, its location revealed to her by Master Zhar after she'd successfully disarmed him in her Trial of Skill, which coincidentally occurred on her birthday.

If she ever yearned for birthday wishes, this year's would be to have Venetia, rather than Master Zhar, in both situations.

Indecision: it was telegraphed in Bastila's movements, from staying rooted to the spot right in front of the door, to aimlessly pacing the length of the spartan quarters they shared with the other senior Padawans.

Not for long, anyway. Dana was sure that Temple Administration would reassign her to the Knight dorms soon. She just hoped that Master Poyet received her note wishing against such a move. Force knew Bastila needed the companionship, given the stress of being the Republic's only hope... not like her friend was ready to admit that.

The nervous energy culminated in the spike of exasperation that streaked through the air like lightning, and Dana heard the muffled thump of Bastila landing roughly on a bed.

Dana chortled, fully aware and relieved that the ambient mechanical whine of the workbench could drown out her inappropriate reaction. Knowing her friend, had Bastila heard that, being glared at would be the least of Dana's problems.

There was the brief shuffling of boots and the distinct rustling of sheets. "Did she tell you?" Bastila spoke in a small voice.

Her voice was muffled, and that meant Bastila was holding her head in her hands again. Honestly, her friend seemed to be doing a lot of that recently, but with Vrook for a Master, why wouldn't she?

Being apprenticed to a Master like Vrook would've been torture, so Dana counted herself lucky for being taken under Master Zhar's wing after... well. After Venetia left.

Dana forced herself to focus on the present, managing to sound blasé. "Well, she told me a lot of things."

"Dana, what happened to her during the war? I know you heard it. You had to."

Turning over a slim, colourless crystal in her hands, Dana held it under the light of the workbench's lamp. She happened to like how this Rubat crystal swallowed the light surrounding it like a void instead of reflecting it; an effect she found both unsettling yet fascinating.

Maybe she'd replace her cracked power crystal with that, then. "Can't say it was pleasant, but if you shield yourself hard enough, the screams won't buzz in your ears. Really."

_I probably shouldn't mention that Venetia's end of the Force bond we share feels like a cold lump of rock in my head ever since the Mandalorian Wars ended. Not quite a rock, because rocks aren't supposed to be comforting... oh well._

_Anyway, Force knows how Bastila would react - tip off the Council perhaps, or force me to have a chat with Healer N'Zoth. But I've had enough of anyone poking around in my head._

"I doubt she is doing it on purpose, but is she aware of that? That she carries such echoes like ferrocrete shackles?"

There was just something about Bastila's tone that made Dana's hackles rise, but the reason remained elusive: was it the disdain for broaching the topic, or astonishment at Bastila's hypotheses?

Brilliant as she was in Battle Meditation, sometimes, Bastila was just so dense. Come to think of it, maybe it would've been for the best that it took Bastila this long, or even better, _not at all._

"Actually, Bas, I'd rather not focus on the why's. I just... I just want her to be okay," Dana snapped, only to regret her tone. She dropped the crystal in her grasp on the workbench and turned to face the woman perched on the edge of the bed.

Bastila was scrutinising her, the pensieve expression she wore so out of place on the one person with unshakeable faith in the Code and the Council.

Dana had a pretty good idea of what Bastila was contemplating. After all, doing the right thing wasn't supposed to hurt anyone, least of all the ones involved.

"She wasn't just your Master." Bastila's gaze lingered on her as Dana scooted over. "Am I correct in saying that?"

Dana knotted her hands together, twisting fingers and rubbing joints with no real purpose - just like her meandering thoughts. _Dense but perceptive, eh, Bas? Scary combination._

_Good question, though. Who was Venetia to me?_

Maybe it wasn't that Dana disliked the nature of this conversation with Bastila, oh no. Maybe she simply didn't expect Bastila's words to hurt as much as they did.

It'd been weeks since that day, but Venetia's rejection still stung. She knew why her Master had acted that way, understood why her Master didn't reply to the countless datamails she'd sent over the years, but the cold shoulder Venetia gave her still stung. Well-meaning yet misguided attempts they were, trying to protect her from the crushing fact that heroes never lasted, but Venetia's actions _still stung._

Frak, anything to do with her former Master still stung, but why wouldn't it? The last three years had been the emotional equivalent of navigating an asteroid field: from the paralysing shockwave that was Malachor's annihilation, and the hysteria of not being able to feel Venetia through the Force after, to discovering that she was indeed alive, only to be informed a week later by Masters Vandar and Vrook that she wouldn't be returning anymore?

Like, what was she supposed to think? _Happy thoughts?_

Dana didn't have the energy to widen her thin-lipped grimace. "She's my friend, Bas. Maybe even like an older sister. The Force bond naturally deepened the connection we shared. Wouldn't you worry for yours the same way?"

Verbalising her thoughts made the anguish Dana had kept under wraps gush out in torrents, flooding every inch of her consciousness. _Damn it Ven, why did you have to cut yourself off so completely?_

The faraway look never left Bastila's face, and Dana was convinced she was missing something. The question was, how costly would that catastrophic oversight be?

"Of course I do." Bastila was suddenly snapping at her - had she touched a nerve? "They are my Masters, and Masters deserve no less than respect and admiration."

Dana definitely couldn't ignore the bitterness swirling in Bastila's Force aura now. Ironic, really, coming from a woman who prided herself on being constantly in a state of passionless serenity as dictated by the Code.

"They push me to my absolute limits because they are preparing me to be the best that I can be. With the war on, to needlessly err would cost the lives of _millions_. That goes against what we stand for as Jedi."

 _She's jealous._ Hearing Bastila's venom-ridden rant replay in her head merely reinforced her unexpected burst of insight. _Jealous of the relationship I shared with Ven, something she's been denied for years._

Suddenly, acting snippy around her friend didn't sound like a good idea. _Faux pas again, Dana Kyjj. What are you going to do now?_

Her mind turning up blanks, Dana did the only thing she knew how in that moment: she wrapped an arm around Bastila's shoulders, and pulled the woman into a one-armed hug.

Though Bastila pushed her away with a customary snort of disdain moments later, Dana knew her friend needed that.

The prideful said little, after all. Plus, _attachment_ was forbidden by the Code.


	5. (Stuck) In a Jar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are just not meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _everyone's an oyster with their grain of sand,_  
>  _I love you most and some, now it has to end._  
>  ([~](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RgyyDNZwEBg%0A))

3957 BBY // 3 AMW

Refresher Unit, Pyrrhic Shandy  
Hyperspace, en route to Manaan

* * *

 

_Something's wrong._

There were so many of them; scattered, white pinpricks burned into the great expanse of darkness. It seemed to call out to her, bringing to life an existential truth that was seemingly etched all over her soul, and she was mesmerised.

She was just an inconsequential speck in a galaxy awash with countless others, and yet she just knew that she was so much more. Like she had a destiny to fulfill, according to the whims of the Force.

_Feels different, somehow. Hollow._

She turned away from the transparisteel window, twisting the knob of the tap with her free hand.

Water gushed out of the tap and sprayed flecks all over her hands, but the flow ceased as fast as it came, filling no higher than half of her metal tumbler.

Though ships had standard water-conserving protocols, the crew's water allotment on the Pyrrhic Shandy was simply cutthroat. Half a cupful of water definitely wasn't enough for what she was about to do.

Then again, she was glad that they had real water instead of sonic taps. Sonic waves vapourised the grime completely, but it left her skin frightfully drier than before.

_Can't seem to shake off the feeling. That this is more important than I think it is._

She pulled out a plasteel drawer - her drawer - under the sink, reaching out for the tube of toothpaste wedged between boxes of hypospray. Spreading a thin film of the white paste over the bristles of her toothbrush, she dipped it into her tumbler of water before brushing her teeth.

_Last week. It only started last week, this... inadequacy in my head, and I can't ignore it._

Someone was staring back at her in the cupboard's mirror; dull hazel eyes on a weathered face, with white froth lining the edges of her mouth. There was a thin scar, a faint line cutting through her right eyebrow and across the ridge of her nose. Moments later, the woman in the mirror traced that detail with an index finger.

_Maybe it'll just go away soon. My problems always do, if I ignore them enough._

Her gums prickled, the scent of mint overloading her senses. It wasn't until later when she tasted blood on her tongue, the white froth streaked with scarlet, and she realised that her gums were bleeding.

_Yes, it'll go away. I'll make sure of that._

She swirled her toothbrush in the tumbler of water, before gargling with whatever volume of water left in that same cup.

The water that swirled in the plasteel sink came out in a pastel shade of crimson, a colour that had her hastily looking away.

The cheers that filtered through the door startled her, adding on to her vague sense of unease. She pushed the feeling down into the darkest corners of her self, before trusting herself to look into the mirror once again.

At least she recognised herself now. The smidgen of colour in her cheeks did wonders for her complexion.

_Enough mooning. Someone has to pilot the ship._

Stowing her items back into her compartment, she depressed the door's controls and left, conflicted by the thought that her gut rarely led her astray.

\---

" _Hey-_ Fuzzball, I know you just swiped some cards off the table!"

"Just because I'm old, dear boy, doesn't mean I can't see the cards stuffed up _your_ sleeves."

Laughter echoed around the common table at the exchange, the booming nature of it tickling this one's sensitive Cathar ears.

This one didn't know when this one's habit of depersonalising pronouns in this one's head kicked in, but this one definitely wasn't going to stop that anytime soon. It probably had something to do with the time this one was electrocuted by a T3 unit back on Nar Shaddaa.

It would've been an enjoyable dinner with all of the Shandy's crew, had Ryder stayed a little longer at the table. That one had excused herself minutes ago, muttering something about cockpit duty and food stuck in that one's teeth. If that one was a Cathar like this one, Ryder could easily flick out those bits with a talon.

Looking up from his datapad, Maxxus chided Vox with a smirk. "Don't mess with the old man, Vox. I don't keep him around for nothing."

This one knew that was supposed to be funny, but Maxxus' gruff voice killed off whatever humour those words contained.

"My, Maxxus, I'm not here because we go way back?" Giles almost looked affronted, while picking out a card in hand.

He placed it flat on the table beside his upturned cards, before flipping it to reveal a -3 card.

Vox hissed like a Cathar. Giles had a perfect score, _again._

Maxxus eyed Giles. "You think I'm the charitable sort?"

Giles' pout stretched into a grin without the teeth. "Not in a million years, friend."

Meanwhile, this one scrutinized slices of nerf roast, using a sharp talon to push around the uneaten hunks spread across the plate. Today, this one's attempts at recreating roast nerf in the synthesizer wasn't as successful as the last, and it showed in the charred texture of the meat.

"Scuttlebut says Darth Revan's dead," this one declared, nose turning up at the sterility of cabin air. Talking was more pleasant than staring at this one's food.

Everyone at the table immediately looked up at this one's words, a human mannerism this one found highly amusing.

Vox dropped his cards on the table with newfound energy, as if he was looking for an alternative to admitting defeat to the old Bothan. "The Revanchist himself? You're shitting me, Snips."

"This one does not lie." Mhaila gingerly pushed away the plate of steak. "When you three were watching Ryder compete in the swoop races, this one was at the bar, yes? There was a Republic soldier beside this one, and that one said that. A Jedi strike team boarded Revan's flagship during a Republic trap, but Malak fired on the ship at the same time."

Giles snorted, moving to re-adjust the pair of glasses precariously balanced on the tip of his snout. "That Malak's one smart kid, offing his Master at the same time. No one could've survived that."

"That is correct. The flagship exploded not long after." An idle thought came to mind. "This one heard they sent Bastila Shan on that team too."

This one couldn't mistake the imperceptible drop in temperature, the sudden coolness rippling the fur on this one's skin. Galactic politics meant little to this one after Cathar was no more, but it wasn't like that for the rest rendered speechless at the table - and this one knew their concern went beyond business.

This one could _taste_ the hint of fear clinging to them like the stink of plasteel on her paws.

"So the Republic has no hope now?" Vox guffawed, with far less enthusiasm this one would associate with him, but it did chase away the disquiet that this one keenly sensed.

 _Trust that one to deliver inappropriate one-liners at the best of times_ , this one sighed, surreptitiously glancing at the hallways leading out from the common area.

Giles was trying not to bare his canines in a grin, a stark contrast to the surly countenance of the Iridonian seated beside him. But this one never did see the Captain with anything but a grimace, probably to match that one's black eyepatch and look like a proper space pirate.

A rebuke was how this one expected Maxxus to respond to Vox's ragging, instead, a half-smirk crept across that one's face. "If you haven't realised, Vox, we _are_ a Republic start-up firm. And we work for them."

"Already have, boss. I could tell from the hideous uniforms in the starboard cargo hold. Glad we don't have to wear 'em, though." Vox didn't bother flattening his grin, so the rest at the table didn't bother holding back their sniggers.

Watching Giles and Vox pick up their cards, this one felt comfortable again, her senses picking up on the tension falling away like a house of Pazaak cards.

Still, this one was fully aware that this was just a façade, an act ignoring the looming unknown of the future - and the crew of the Pyrrhic Shandy were masters at that. This one had certainly left them more doubtful than before.

Maybe not for this one, though. This one was simply another refugee who fixed droids on Nar Shaddaa, before opportunity came knocking on this one's door - literally, when Talwain Dispatch paid off this one's debt to Tienn Tub to acquire this one's services.

Really, there wasn't much of a past for this one to hide. Unlike this one's colleagues. Because even this one wasn't oblivious to how long-haul frieght work wasn't prime job selections for people who loved staying at home, or had someone to return to.

Something seemed to be sending ripples down this one's orange fur, it being a weighty gaze aimed squarely at this one's back. It wasn't that this one didn't sense it before, rather, this one had managed to ignore it for the last few minutes.

Whatever it was, this one had to get back to the ship's malfunctioning condensation systems, before it reduced the crew's water allotment further. This one did _not_ enjoy using sonic showers to clean her fur.

Excusing herself with a wave, Mhaila headed towards the port-side cargo hold. A spot of dirt on a sleeve snagged this one's attention along the way, so much so that this one almost bumped into a human at the junction of the corridor.

This one made to apologise to the human - Ryder, this one realised, upon seeing the veiny arms and savrip tooth pendant - but Ryder stonily shook her head with a finger on her lips. She hurried past this one with hands stuffed in her pants pockets, avoiding this one's gaze throughout. Strangely, this one couldn't seem to sense any trace of emotion from the human, only the slight whiff of mint clinging to that one's tank tee.

This one was left confused, uncertain of the odd behaviour that Ryder expressed. Unlike Vox, the male human, Ryder was sour most times, but this complete lack of emotion was disturbing.

That one acted as if something inside her had broken, _permanently._

When the dampness on this one's fur became too uncomfortable to bear, this one turned the corner and entered the empty cargo hold. Sadly, the ship's atmospheric sensors couldn't regulate the cabin temperature, instead causing it to vary between uncomfortable extremes. That was another problem this one had to fix, as if the Shandy didn't have enough problems already.

Sometimes, this one wondered if the ship would fall apart without this one.

While retrieving a toolbox from a storage compartment in the wall, this one found herself thinking about Ryder. That one had always been hard to read, even more so than the droids this one loved tinkering with.

Since the steady whine of the Shandy's engines offered no answers for this one, this one left it at that.

Poking a krayt dragon's rear wasn't on this one's list of priorities, anyhow. This one liked the idea of living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pyrrhic Shandy's a Dynamic-class light freighter, so its interior would be identical to the Ebon Hawk's, though the garage's been repurposed as a cargo hold.


	6. You Stole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _now I know that you stole._  
>  _yeah, you stole_  
>  _from the cradles they were rocked in._  
>  _you took the first words that they spoke_  
>  _yeah, you stole._  
>  ([~](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1n6R3EEgm4))

To: Ryder Anesidora (993753@server.holonet)  
From: Dana Kyjj (836294@server.holonet)  
Sent: 0346 Galactic Standard Time, 15th of Month 3.

Ven,

Is it Venetia still, or have you decided to use your other alias instead? Didn't know you'd use it again, not when its creation involved two Gamorreans, a Sith and an indecent proposal. Thinking about it makes me smile every time.

I'm waiting for the end; sitting still in this troop transport on a straight course to the drop zone where we'll do what we have to. It's quiet now, but after we leave hyperspace, everything will start to come apart at the seams.

I don't know if you'll read this, but I really hope you do. I know you've ignored most of my datamails over the last three years, but I don't care. I realise now why you did that - I think, and I know I need to tell you this.

Ven, you've never failed me. You being an exile, or leaving during the War and betraying the wishes of the Council? Pfft. None of those mattered to me. I know you never fell like Revan and Malak, because I still recognise you after everything. You've always done what you felt was right, and for coming back only to be exiled, that was the bravest thing you could have ever done, Ven. If anything, I'm proud to have called you my Master.

Now that I know who you work for, you'll definitely see me planetside someday. Since I'm already a Knight, the Council's definitely sending me on missions off-planet. Not like I'm about to let them stop me, anyway.

We're dropping out of hyperspace soon. I'll continue this later, when we're on our way back to Dantooine.

-Dana

 

To: Ryder Anesidora (993753@server.holonet)  
From: System (master@server.holonet)  
Sent: 1854 Galactic Standard Time, 18th of Month 3.

SYSTEM ERROR 5623:  
INVALID DATAMAIL RECIPIENT (REF ID: 836294@server.holonet)  
POSSIBLY RECENT DEACTIVATION, OR ACCOUNT DOES NOT EXIST

CONTACT SYS ADMIN FOR TECHNICAL SUPPORT, OR REFER TO FAQ.

\--------------------Original Message---------------------

>To: Dana Kyjj (836294@server.holonet)

>From: Ryder Anesidora (993753@server.holonet)

>Sent: 1830 Galactic Standard Time, 18th of Month 3.

>

>Dana.

>You still there?

>

\--------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter titles are all song titles from brand new.


End file.
